THE  SOVEREIGN  IN  THE  STREET 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


LIONEL  JOSEPHARE 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

RECEIVED    BY    EXCHANGE 

Class 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


The  Sovereign  in  the  Street 


And  Other  Poems 


By 


LIONEL  JOSAPHARE 


San  Francisco 

A.  M.  ROBERTSON 

1907 


Copyright,  1903  and  1907 
A.  M.  Robertson 


Deceived  from 
Copyright  Office. 


Containing 

The  Sovereign  in  the  Street 

The  Humpback,  the  Cripple 
and  the  One-Eyed  Man 

The  Past 
A  Death 


187876 


The  Sovereign  in  the  Street 


From  a  castle  of  thoughts  that  my  conscience  was 

building 

I  studied  a  man  who  was  cutting  a  street, 
While   the  round-rolling   sun  was   demeaning   and 

gilding 
Him  thinking  and  ripping  the  ditch  at  his  feet. 

Of  this  native  of  grief,  as  he  shoveled  the  furrow, 
I  write,  be  the  subject  a  poem  or  not ; 

For    as    deep    did    he    burrow,    my    love    traveled 

thorough 
And  writes,  be  the  truth  of  it  rubies  or  rot. 

Oh,  'tis  weird  that  the  truth,  like  a  corpse  on  the 

floor, 
Should  bleed  on  our  carpets  and  stare  at  the 

light; 

And  that  Art  should  ignore  what  she  taught  us  be 
fore, 
And  tear  up  the  lessons  we  prattled  last  night. 


Not   with   your   eyes,   my   poet,   rose-haunted    and 

grave — 

Thou  poet  with  wondering  beauty-mad  eyes — 
Did  I  look  on  the  slave  digging  low  in  the  cave, 
Corroded  with  dust,  sweat,  itch,  sunbeams  and 
flies. 

O  dim-blushing  poet  with   Grecian-strung  lyre, 
Declare  not  my  earth-man  in  melody  wrong, 

Nor  that  Beauty's  attire  and  effulgence  inspire: 
Tis  the  voice  of  the  singer  makes  noble  the 
song. 

Like  a  grave-digger  digging  a  terrible  grave — 
Like  a  sun  spirit  heaving  the  hot  day  with  coal, 

His  dredger  he  drave  and  he  hove  to  the  pave 
The  clods  that  he  tore  from  the  earth  and  flung 
whole. 

The  freight  of  his  spade,  coming  dun  from  the  bung 
Of  the  foul-smelling  sand,  seemed  the  filth  of  his 

fate. 
And  fast  while  he  flung  the  material  dung 

Of  the  earth  he  built  sidelong  the  mound  of  his 
hate. 


The  wealth-wasting  givers  of  feasts  grew  in  riches; 
Wide,  wide  grew  the  hands  at  the  hilt  of  the 

task; 
And  there  came  a  dream  which  is  a  curse  on  all 

ditches 
And  pain  guised  the  laborer's  face  like  a  mask. 

The  point  of  the  shovel  grew  inward  and  blunt 

And  the  love  in  the  eye  of  the  trencher  grew 

dim; 

As  he  dug  with  a  grunt,  became  shorter  in  front, 
And  his  fingers  grew  crooked,  knock-knuckled 
and  grim. 

Still  at  underground  honor  his  scepter  he  points, 

With  negligence  digging  a  tragical  story; 
While  some  dunce  who  anoints  with  wealth  his  vile 

joints. 

Stands  proud  on  the  swift-rolling  chariots  of 
glory. 

0  for  a  lithe  shovel  of  truculent  aim 

To  gouge  at  the  greed  that  keeps  need  in  the 

sands ! 
For  the  spade  of  good  fame  is  of  wood  and  steel 

frame, 

But  to  masters  of  men  it  is  wood,  steel   and 
hands. 


Then  dig,  ye  bones,  dig;  ye  have  many  more  years; 

Your  sorrows  will  shine  to  the  eyelids  of  God; 
And  Destiny  hears  your  soft-falling  tears : 

O'er  the  task  of  the  spade  let  your  man's  noddle 
nod. 

What  matters  it,  marrow  and  gristle  and  brain 
Or  tendon  and  belly  and  tooth  are  intent? 

Or  that  eyeball  and  vein  in  a  perishing  strain 

To  the  rim  of  the  earth-riving  shovel  are  bent? 

Empowered  of  shoulder  and  elbow  and  groin, 
In  struggle  malefic  he  wearies  at  length, 

While  innard  and  loin  to  the  hot  shovel  join, 

Converting  his  pride  to  the  need  of  new  strength. 

What  long-contained  smiles  have  been  stopped  at 

those  lips? 
What  thoughts  dead  and  useless  are  oozing  in 

sweat? 

What  majesty  drips  on  those  foul-flanneled  hips? 
How  laboring  low  makes  nobility  wet! 

What  tears  that  his  eyelids  a  passage  denied 

Took  a  brinier  course  through  the  fast-weeping 

pores  ? 
What    thoughts    were    untied — what    escapings    of 

pride 
When  first  he  dug  sands  for  their  silverless  ores  ? 


10 


I  could  shout  to  the  sun  (whose  hot  splendors  are 

falling 

And  burning  this  handler  of  shovels)  behold! 
What  devils  are  calling  and  gambling  and  brawling 
For  them  who  with  fingers  of  gold  count  their 
gold. 

But  it  boots  not  relating  what  devils,  alack, 

With   smutty  red   limbs   and   blue  bellies   are 

waiting 
To  harrow  a  pack  of  scared  souls  on  the  rack ; 

That's  a  matter  of  prayers  and.  religious  debat 
ing. 

But  the  pendulum  swaying  through  seasons  to  bring 

The  scenic  effusion  of  May,  we  remember— 
From  flowery  Spring  will  as  quietly  swing 

Back,  back  in  its  path  to  the  wilds  of  November. 

So  the  beam  in  Time's  balance  will  pass  in  its  frame 
And  the  places  of  wealth  become  blighted  and 

cold; 

For  its  gold  and  its  fame  from  weary  blood  came, 
And  Time  will  refund  it  with  blood  from  the 
gold. 


11 


The  Humpback,  the  Cripple  and 
the  One-Eyed  Man. 


One  eve,  while  at  my  window-panes  I  stood, 

Gray  films  of  memory  patched  the  dull  gray  view, 

Where  thoughts,  blithe-winged,  meandered  as  they 

would, 

Like  odd-eyed  fairies  that  from  childhood  flew. 
When   mind's    deep    glass    on   childhood's    ground 

reflects, 

Where  is  the  childish  tenant  of  that  place? 
Dead  in  his  older  self,  now  recollects 
The  inscrutable  sorrows  on  that  infant's  face. 
Yond  sets  the  sun,  that  has  not  lost  a  day 
In  tacking  through  the  sky  his  blazing  hull. 
But  where's  the  light  that  sunned  that  child  at  play? 
E'en  memory's  picture-light  of  it  is  dull. 


12 


Thus  oft,  while  legendary  youth  adjusting 
To  present  movings  in  the  glare  of  wealth, 
I  gaze  past  little  house-tops  poor  and  rusting, 
Where  honor  crawls  and  freedom  breathes  by  stealth. 
To  those  brown  wooden  homes  my  thoughts  'gan  fall, 
My  love  and  pity  passed;  and  fancy  strayed 
Through  dark  defiles  of  streets,  which  ended  small, 
And  there  the  ragged-running  rabble  played. 
Out  of  that  struggling  multifarious  throng, 
A  movement,  as  of  setting  forth,  began; 
From  which  emerged  a  captain  huge  and  strong, 
What  time  I  saw  he  was  a  humpbacked  man. 

I  next  beheld  him  in  my  room.     His  tread 
Was  like  an  army's,  though  he  came  alone. 
With  woes  to  stoppage  fraught,  he  gazed  ahead 
And,  victim  of  a  thousand  crimes,  did  groan. 
Lofty,  though  lashed  and  lulled  from  eloquent  line, 
Despoilt  with  tasks  and  years,  on  him,  withal, 
Innumerable  beauties  did  still  twine, 
Like  roses  livening  a  ruined  wall. 
Rigid  with  strength,  solidified  with  grief, 
He  felt  no  amber  sun-beams  make  him  bright, 
But  saw,  with  the  magic  eyesight  of  belief, 
The  hand  of  wrong  betwixt  him  and  the  light. 


13 


His  frown  was  apt  with  anger  to  chastise, 

Like  God's,  to  awe  the  ungodly  to  obey; 

And  yet  the  kindlier  prospect  of  his  eyes 

Was  like  a  twilight  turning  bluebells  gray. 

His  smile  was  like  a  hope  of  sweeter  woe, — 

A  vision  rising  from  a  lake  of  tears; 

For  tears  from  hopes  and  pent-up  visions  flow, 

And  his  had  flowed  in  spirit  through  the  years. 

Of  sentences  to  tie  into  a  tale, 

He  lacked  supply,  nor  gained  them  from  the  gloom, 

And,  when  of  his  few  words  he  made  avail, 

His  voice  was  like  the  coward's  in  a  tomb. 


He  showed  me  wrongs  and  schedules  of  complaint, 

In  wide  expectance  of  my  soon  surprise ; 

And  at  such  misery  as  he  could  paint, 

Asked  me  to  imitate  his  bardlike  sighs. 

But  I,  in  walls  with  seemlier  pictures  brimming, 

Did  scrutin  his  with  courtesy  at  most. 

Ill-framed     with     splendors,     frightless     was     his 

limning — 

The  noontime  telling  of  a  midnight  ghost. 
Then  he,  with  toppling-heavy  shoulders  bowed, 
Withdrew  unsoothed  and  through  his  people  went, 
Obscurely  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Through  a  dark  forest.    Then  my  view  was  bent. 


14 


Then  came  a  rogue  who  entered  with  a  thud — 
A  crippled,  crack-legged,  crimson-browed  alarm, 
A  night-hag's  dwarf,  inbred  with  Satan's  blood 
And  marked  by  Hell's   astrology  for  harm. 
Softly!    He  is  all  memory  now.    But  I 
Eemember  what  a  tragic  rage  he  had 
And  physiognomic  shadows  that  did  ply 
His  hate  and  seem,  each  one,  a  face  to  add. 
Hobbler  upon  mismated  legs  he  came, 
Stopping  in  fault,  or  with  short-coming  hurry, 
Limped  hither  thither  like  a  shifting  flame 
And  cursed  and  perjured  with  exceeding  worry. 

From  a  short  reverie  and  scowl  aside, 
This  flame-and-smoke  hued  villain  then  rebounded; 
"Remorse  on  you!    Fall  down  and  weep,"  he  cried, 
And,  being  raged,  a  throaty  tale  expounded. 
"Boilers  will  burst  in  wrath  and  vent  their  ills; 
New  patriots  your  walls  from  walls  will  pluck, 
Unlock  the  axles  of  the  frothing  mills 
And  hurl  the  hot  vibrating  wheels  amuck. 
I  see  your  windows  bursted  spouting  flame 
And  you  in  cinders  blacker  than  ours  now — " 
Madman!     I  stopped  him  there  and,  with  exclaim, 
Seated  my  fist  compactly  on  his  brow. 


15 


Binding  his  forehead  with  his  arms  he  quailed 
Out  of  my  eyes,  nor  back  his  dudgeon  darting, 
Avaunted  and  himself  with  tears  regaled 
And  sobs  to  keep  him  company  departing. 
And  then  I  saw  that  I  was  not  alone : 
The  third  who  now  against  me  did  contrive 
Was  clad  in  mouldy  black,  not  aye  his  own, 
And,  having  but  one  eye,  looked  half  alive. 
The  eye  survivor  seemed  in  fright  to  stare 
Still  at  the  violence  that  had  quashed  the  other; 
Or  else  accounted  all  the  world  unfair 
For  leering  on  the  cave  left  by  its  brother. 

Shiftless,  erelong  he  into  words  did  stray; 
Inhaled  the  simple  twilight  for  his  lung, 
Which  worked  (in  their  behalf  who  were  away) 
The  leaky  loud  poetics  of  his  tongue. 
His  plural  and  most  voluble  debating 
Paused  often  and  amazed  to  pick  its  choice 
Of  words  and  repetitions  lost  and  waiting 
In  the  astounding  mazes  of  his  voice. 
He  said  that  we  are  foemen  to  defeat  them 
Whose  lives  we  press  and  purchase  hour  to  hour; 
And  swore  that  we  are  cannibals  and  eat  them 
Whose  strength  is  in  the  dainties  we  devour. 


16 


" Tripe-fed  philosopher  and  gloomy  dunce!" 
To  him  I  quick  in  rising  soul  replied, 
"You  are  the  devils  cast  from  Heaven  once, 
Now  from  the  light  of  heavenly  wealth  denied. 
A  fool  tongue  curling,  /justice'  is  your  word: 
Not  you,  not  I,  but  God  knows  what  that  is, 
And  how  much  debt  the  crime  of  life  incurred, 
And  how  each  yearning  knave  may  reason  his. 
To  vanquish  Heaven  is  a  feat  for  Hell, 
That  Pleasure,  smiling,   frighten  at  Hell's  frown; 
Your  duty  is  to  envy  and  rebel; 
Mine  is  to  battle  your  rebellion  down. 

"Therefore,  should  I  be  gracious  to  your  will, 
Letting    your    fortunes    bask    where    mine    have 

flourished, 

And  with  my  art  your  artless  hopes  fulfill, 
Your  wants  would  grow  in  purpose,  being  nourished ; 
Yet  would,  as  grew  their  project,  lose  in  power, 
For,  being  wronged,  the  courage  gains  in  force; 
But  favors,  man,  would  steal  your  anger's  flower, 
Leaving  you  poor  in  motive  and  resource. 
Then  should  I  grant  the  simple  things  you  ask, 
I  would  be  shrewdly  stealing  all  you  own : 
The  conquest  of  its  own  is  honor 's  task ; 
Without  which  task,  how  would  its  work  be  known  ? ' ' 


17 


Then  he,  naught  saying  nor  attempting,  turned, 
Slinking  off  like  a  lean  cat  in  the  rain. 
But  scarce  outside  his  transit  I  discerned, 
Another  came  to  give  my  fancies  pain. 
O  mortal  horror!     Not  until  Hell's  doom, 
When  the  last  shivering  consumptive  imp 
Will  slam  the  black  and  icy  gates  of  gloom 
And  fall  convulsed  with  many  a  woeful  crimp, 
Will  there  again  such  mangled  monster  crawl 
Out  of  the  glimmering  pits  (as  if  surviving 
Satan  and  all  his  tortures)  as  did  fall 
Into  my  sight — a  shape  that  howled  arriving. 

Of  the  deformities  of  them  before 
He  was  the  ghastly,  physical  conjunction; 
Shaped  by  his  wounds  and  showing  many  more 
To  try  my  fear  or  delicate  compunction, 
Threefoldly  damaged,  wrenched  from  noble  height. 
With  blood-stains  in  his  beard  and  hair  that  ran 
Into  mad  masses,  he  was  all,  outright, 
Humpbacked  and  crippled  and  a  one-eyed  man, 
Like  the  first  huge  up-shouldered  one  he  loomed, 
And  like  the  angry  cripple  dragged  a  limb, 
And  like  the  one-eyed  man's  his  one  eye  bloomed, 
And  as  a  gory  giant  he  was  grim. 


is 


He  spoke:   "I  am  that  one  you  firstly  scanned. 

I  am  the  man  of  many  woes  and  wrongs. 

I  know  the  backs  that  suffer  and  withstand. 

I  know  the  hearts  to  which  your  blood  belongs. 

No  longer  I  am  anvil  to  your  pride  : 

I  walk,  though  lamed  by  Jealousy  and  Fear ; 

For  when  my  comrades  took  me  for  their  guide, 

The  jealous  rivals  of  my  wrath  stabbed  here. 

Then  I  the  wisdom  of  our  wants  became, 

And  he  who  was  half-sighted  was  put  by, 

Shrieking  as  he  struck  here  with  hideous  aim, 

'Let  our  great  leader  be  one-eyed,  as  I.' 

"Thus  I  am  fit  memorial  of  the  strife; 

My  body  is  become  a  bloody  flag. 

Adorned  with  the  atrocities  of  life, 

I  am  the  fury  of  the  hut  and  rag. 

Humpbacked  I  am  from  shouldering  golden  wrongs ; 

Lame — all  my  deeds  by  jealousy  are  crippled; 

One-eyed  in  the  half-wisdom  of  my  throngs, 

But  in  resolve  all  their  terrifies  tripled. 

I  threaten  you,  Revenge  has  yet  in  keep 

Memory  of  inextinguishable  stuff, 

And  Retribution  can  through  armies  leap 

Till  overcrowded  Hell  must  cry  'Enough!' 


19 


"Your   crimes,   though   weak,   have   bent   me   into 

strength, 

That  I  may  clasp  your  struggles  in  my  hand. 
Though  bowed,  I  crush;  though  lame,  limp  to  great 

length ; 

One-eyed, — my  deeds  I  need  not  understand. 
Tremble  and  move  as  timber  struck  by  steel. 
Howl  with  repentance  through  your  vacant  fame. 
Depart  on  limbs  that  soon  may  learn  to  kneel; 
And,  fallen  in  escaping,  bleed  with  shame!" 
He  said  no  more ;  but  his  dark  arm  rose  high. 
And  he  is  here.     His  shoulders  heave  with  woe. 
And  he  is  thinking  and  he  has  one  eye; 
Monster,  with  wrongs  and  wrath,  he  will  not  go. 


20 


The  Past 


Tell  me  not,  0  buff -skulled  master,  that  the  heart  of 

youth  is  faster 

In  the  orbit  of  its  dreaming  when  fantastic  and  un 
wise; 
That   our  youngest-bred   affection   is  but   amorous 

dejection 

Which  experienced  correction  of  our  loving  will  sur 
prise. 

For  I  reck  that  if  our  sighs 
In  the  foretime  of  our  Fancy  brought  the  summer 

to  her  breast, 

And  she  kissed  our  first  request, 
She  will  be  forever's  best, 
Though  we  move  a  hundred  hearts  to  trust  the  heart 

that  first  she  blessed. 
And  of  them  whose  Cupid  lies 

Dead  in  memory's  garden,  I  too  have  a  fancy  in 
demise. 


21 


In  that  garden  of  this  telling  stood  a  wonder-window 

dwelling 
With  a  front  of  pillared  marble  and  a  door  of  oak 

and  gold. 
There  were  sculptured  lions  jessant  by  a  stairway 

irridescent, 
And  a  fountain  sprayed  incessant  in  a  circle  there 

of  old. 

And  along  the  magic  mold 
Bloomed  those  buds  which  oft  at  weddings  beatific 

virgins  wear, 

Fragrant,  fortunate  and  fair, 
In  their  enterissued  hair, 
And  which  oft  I  wreathed  for  Daphne  when  atwain 

we  wandered  there; 
With  whose  tresses  to  enfold, 

Set  the  fragrance  on  her  forehead  for  the  love  the 
blossoms  told. 

Tall  beside  the  trees  of  twilight,  when  the  daysdone 

of  July  light 
Thrilled  the  sinking  world  with  spectres   and  our 

eyes  with  western  flame, 
Turned  she  slowly  and  thereat  heard  myriad  fearful 

feet  that  pattered 
As  unto  her  ears  I  flattered  deeds  of  no  sufficient 

name. 

Dame  of  mythologic  frame, 
Like  a  near  but  vague-lipped  phantom  by  a  great 

magician  wrought, 

Pale  with  love  and  calm  for  thought, 
She  was  past  the  scope  of  marvel,  more  than  ardor 

ever  sought. 

And  in  Heaven 's  month  she  came, 
Tressed    like    Pluto's    queen    and    featured    like    a 

harbinger  of  fame. 

22 


Then  it  was  the  day's  perfection  seemed  no  common 

road's  reflection 

But  the  earthly  recollection  of  a  heavenly  day  be 
fore. 
Yet  it  seemed  the  heart 's  Creator,  as  our  halo-haired 

spectator, 
Turned  our  steps  from  life's  equator  to  a  dim  and 

deathlike  floor. 

There  the  stars  by  daylight  bore 
Unphenomenal    effulgence    on    our    kiss-expectant 

smiles ; 

There  the  amaranthine  aisles 
Of  the  future  bent  their  miles, 
Filled  with  omens  that  repentance  to  my  life  still 

reconciles, 

When  the  ghosts  come  slow  and  sore, 
To  the  after-years  of  slumber  for  a  troubled  glimpse 
of  yore. 

When  those  glorious  walls  were  standing,  and  the 

signal  buds  expanding 
Where  the  previous  hand   of   Spring  had  painted 

green  the  earthly  chart, 
Life   in   life   a   mansion   making,   yet   with   inward 

horror  shaking, 
We  beheld  the  gray  dust  breaking  through  the  tints 

of  Heaven's  art. 
Anguish  has  no  rougher  dart 
Than  the  jetty -headed  missile  whose  remembrance 

still  brings  pain; 
For  I  seldom  can  attain 
Pure  delight  or  pleasure  feign 
Forth  from  her  of  whom  the  landscape  seemed  a 

pageant  in  her  train, 
When  she  stood  in  scenes  apart 
With  omnipotent  beauty  regent  o'er  the  liegedom 
of  my  heart. 

23 


In  that  beauty  she  descended  from  the  realms  of 

light  and  wended 
Through  the  wonders  of  a  passion  in  the  orchard  of 

a  dream. 
Mystic  then  was  life's  transition  as  the  glamours  of 

tradition ; 
Future   lay   in    recognition;    I    beheld    its   banners 

gleam. 

Ever  now  the  turbid  stream 
Through  the  miserable  meadow  flows  to  people  in 

the  town; 

And  the  darkened  sun  looks  down 
On  a  field  of  blasted  brown. 
Gone   that   manse   that   spread   its   marvels   for   a 

woman's  rich  renown, 
Gone  that  palace  which  did  seem 
Consecration   in   its   purpose;   in   conception   there 
supreme. 

In  that  edifice  adorning  the  prophetic  front  of  morn 
ing— 
In  that  architectural  marble  glowing  white  upon  the 

green — 
In  those  towers  that  eternal  years  I  prayed  would 

find  supernal 
And  on  them  lie  soft  as  vernal  dews,  ambition  placed 

its  queen. 

Superhumanly  serene, 
But  her  blue-eyed  lustrous  pallor,  and  the  wreath 

upon  her  brow — 
Gone  I  know  not  when  or  how 
Are  no  benediction  now 
On  the  vanishment  of  glory  or  the  dead  leaves  on 

the  bough, 

With  dead  ivy  stopt  between, 
And  the  black  foundations  falling  from  a  structural 

unseen. 
24 


Every    window    that    I    cherished    in    tempestuous 

gloom  has  perished; 
Yet  I  seek  that  moonlit  palace  till  the  searching  ends 

in  fright. 
For  'tis  wretched,  on  returning  to  the  substance  of 

our  yearning, 
To  find  shadow  fast  inurning  what  was  quadrilater- 

ally  bright. 

Then  a  fervor  fools  the  sight; 
For,  in  thinking  of  that  ground,  by  actual  presence 

overgrown, 

I  am  in  the  wished-for  zone, 
Where  the  wisher  stands  alone 
And  the  deathly  scenes  enliven  as  the  past  becomes 

his  own. 

And  that  past  is  flushed  with  light 
As  my  eyelids  droop  and  darken  to   all  save  the 
dreams  of  night. 


But  in  mornlight  after  dreaming,  comes  a  written 

thing  redeeming 
Vestiges   of   retribution   from   the   penance   of   my 

days — 
Is  a  flash  of  oldtime  smitten  by  a  hand  with  pallors 

litten, 
Sending    prose    epistles    written    in    my    past    and 

present  praise. 
And  upon  the  inky  phrase, 
White   and  fragrant  yet  though   folded   are  those 

buds  I  once  thought  fair — 
Those  that  usual  virgins  wear 
Twisted  in  their  bridal  hair. 
And  a  sign  within  the  letter  tells  a  kiss  was  given 

there. 


25 


I  remember  those  love-bays 
Tree-plucked  near  a  path  once  precious  but  now 

dingy  in  its  ways, — 
Near  a  door  of  oak  and  gold, 

Where  two  sculptured  lions  jessant  watched  a  stair 
way  irridescent, 

And  a  fount  I  thought  incessant,  in  a  circle  sprayed 
of  old. 


26 


A  Death 


The  sleeper  sobbed  and  moved  again; 
His  visage  brown,  and  death-bed  gown,  lay  wealthy 

in  the  wealth  of  men. 
His  veins  were  sick  as  pauper's  when  the  pauper 

pulls  his  rags  again 
And  feels  the  agony  again 
Of  flesh  becoming  clay  again. 
A  burnished  bed  with  old-world  lace  remained  him 

now  of  worldly  grace. 

Reptilian  shadows  crossed  his  face.     I  thought  he 
would  not  wake  again. 

I  touched  his  heart.     It  sprang  again — 
Winced  after  years,  of  gold,  of  tears,  of  curses  from 

the  hate  of  men. 
Twice  did  he  look  like  death;  but  when  I  touched 

his  eyes,  they  stared  again, 
Insanely  shrewd  that  I  again 
Had  thought  he  might  not  wake  again. 
From  sleep  the  eyelids  oft  awoke;  in  dying  squalls 

the  drab  mouth  spoke. 

While  Death  withheld  the  final  stroke,  I  touched 
the  lips,  that  moaned  again: 

27 


"Lord  God,  give  me  to  live  again. 
'Tis  true  that  T  have  mouthed  the  lie,  have  torn  the 

soul  from  things  and  men. 
But  I  will  sweeten  them,  Lord,  when  Thou  givest 

me  to  live  again — 
To  breathe  of  noisy  life  again, 
To  pet  the  cheek  of  youth  again. 
With  bleeding  soles  in  stricken  gait,  let  me  retrace 

those  days  of  hate ; 

From  honor  I  will  ne'er  abate.     But  who  can  enter 
youth  again? 

"Not  yet  sift  me  with  dust  again! 
Another  while  on  this  fair  isle,  fain  would  I  speak 

with  actual  men. 
Send  me  thy  symbol  saying  when  Thou  sayest,  'Let 

him  live  again;' 
In  darling  childishness  again, 
In  youth's  immaculate  strength  again — 
And  I  will  flay  my  soul  of  greed;  the  hungry  from 

my  hunger  feed ; 

Oh,  very  little  should  I  need,  0  Lord,  if  I  may  live 
again. 


28 


"And  no  sin-gleaming  gold  again. 
To  love  and  give  I  then  would  live,  and  publish  laws 

of  love  to  men, 
And  give  nor  be  dejected  when  they  came  not  with 

their  thanks  again. 
I  would  believe  and  give  again, 
Rejected  be  and  love  again; 
And  through  my  wisdom  would  I  press  the  sins  and 

lusts  that  gave  me  stress, 

Partaking  now  of  deeds  that  bless — 0  blessed  deed 
to  live  again! 

"Lord,  let  me  preach  my  wish  again: 
These  lands  unsold  and  shores  of  gold,  in  freedom 

will  I  give  to  men; 
Yea,  wealth  and  love  will  I  give  when  I  find  them 

touched  with  life  again. 
Kinder  than  all  my  kind  again, 
"Would  I  live,  living  once  again. 
Rich  would  it  be  to  wander  poor,  or  nigh  the  beauti 
ful  stand  pure, 

And  love  the   darkling  and   obscure;   and   thus  I 
would  in  life  again. 


29 


11  Where  is  the  way  to  youth  again? 
What   access   hidden,   charm   forbidden,   gives   the 

light  of  living  men? 
What  cave  turns  through  the  years  and  when  it 

opens  is  the  world  again? 
O  visible  gates  to  see  again ! 
0  to  unlock  those  gates  again ! 
Shining  like  hope  when  hope  is  near,  that  I  may  in 

and  disappear, 

And,  lost  within  the  pleasure,  hear  the  prelude  of 
my  life  again. 

"So  fond  am  I  to  be  again 

The  hand-enclasped,  the  joy-addrest,  the  laughter- 
sharing  guest  of  men, 
And    glow    with    games    that    loudened    when    the 

simplest  fancy  sang  again, 
That  must  I  pass   (to  live  again) 
Through  Hades,  where,  in  pomp  again, 
The  keepers  of  the  secret  lurk,  near  Titans  bent  in 

monstrous  work, 

And    lightnings    through    the    thunders    jerk — all 
would  I  dare  to  live  again. 


"Those  years  so  good  to  feel  again, 
Those   paths  to   go,   those   woods  to   know,   where 

amorous  women  walk  with  men, 
Their  sweets  I  would  not  envy  when  they  passed 

nor  looked  on  me  again. 
For,  but  to  see  the  trees  again, 
Through  tortures  I  would  work  again; 
Though    every  hour   that   I   must   pass   be   reptile 

turned  and  scaled  with  brass 

Their  fangs  would  feel  as  pleasant  grass,  o'er  which 
I  tread  to  youth  again. 

"Thus  play  despair  and  hope  again; 
Despair,  despair,  the  humble  tear  of  eyes  beholding 

happier  men, 
Well  worth  our  envy — envy  when?     Say  will  they 

hope  to  live  again? — 
To  try  the  mood  of  Heaven  again? 
O  let  me  live  to  pray  again! 
O  faithless  bed,  O  rotting  boat,  upon  what  waters 

do  we  float, 

While  I  on  backward  visions  dote  ?     Ah !     Who  has 
lived  and  lived  again?" 


31 


JUL  15  1908 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


